


Pestilence and Fire

by A_God_A_Vampire_And_Two_Heirs_Of_Durin



Series: Will We Be Stuck Like This Forever? [9]
Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Plague, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Warning - descriptions of plague, Warning - thoughts of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:10:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2374013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_God_A_Vampire_And_Two_Heirs_Of_Durin/pseuds/A_God_A_Vampire_And_Two_Heirs_Of_Durin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1665, it’s been nearly 320 years since the last outbreak of the plague…perhaps it is time for another one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pestilence and Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OctobersLily510](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctobersLily510/gifts).



> OctobersLily510 asked for a Great Plague/Fire of London fic so I hope this is okay :)

In some ways they’d been extraordinarily lucky this time around. They’d found each other nearly two years ago, at the wedding of a mutual friend; the bridegroom had been a cousin of Anders’ and a close friend of Mitchell’s, and he’d clearly decided that the two of them should be introduced.

If only he had been aware of what the introduction had begun.

They’d spent the evening of the wedding casually talking with one another when they could and then catching each other’s gaze when they were separated, their true feelings simmering under the weight of propriety and the consequences of what would happen if they were caught. Manners dictated that they should offer dances to the young girls in the wedding party but their eyes kept drifting towards watching the other man dance instead.

And once the bridegroom and his new wife had retired for the wedding night, and a suitable fuss had been made, the two men had managed to find an opportunity to make their own exits.

They ended up at Mitchell’s house, fortunately the rest of the village was still at the wedding and they could enter unseen. Later, Anders would have to be especially careful when leaving and somehow travelling back to his own town, which happened to be a few miles away.

And now they found themselves, two years later, with a place of their own in a less populated area of London. It wasn’t exactly the most well-to-do street, for neither man had much money to his name, but the rent was acceptable nor were their neighbours exactly paupers.

They lived under the pretence that they were cousins who had come to London to seek their fortunes, taking barely anything with them but a few blankets, clothes and the locket which had belonged to Anders’ mother and the blond now wore round his neck constantly. The people they said this to mostly laughed and told them that two boys from the country were unlikely to find fame or fortune anywhere, let alone the city.

It didn’t dissuade them, however. The thought of living in anonymity in London was better that living amongst their old neighbours who had known them from birth any day.

Mitchell found work in the form of an apprenticeship to a carpenter in a shop just a few streets away while Anders made a further trek towards the centre of the city itself, where he worked long hours copying prescriptions and notes for a doctor, having been lucky enough to gain an education from the local parson when he was a child.

In the evenings, they’d either lock their door and enjoy each other’s company or perhaps take a short stroll along the banks of the Thames. One time, they even saved their spare pennies for a visit to the Globe theatre to see one of the new plays which was being performed there.

Yes, London was perfect for them.

They made friends with the old beggar woman who begged for coins by the door to the apothecary, and she always wished them a good day and offered them a knowing wink when they passed by her.

Anders was convinced that she had an idea as to the true nature of their relationship.

They didn’t question what they had. There was always that worry in the back of their minds that one day their paradise might come crashing down around them. Both of them had lost their parents when they were much younger and, having no siblings, were raised partially by their neighbours and partially by themselves. They’d always been alone, but now that they had each other, they were grateful for every minute together which was afforded to them.

And then Mitchell came home one day with some strange news.

“Mr Shaw says that there’s been some commotion in the city these past few days,” he said, “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Anders shook his head.

“I hardly socialise there to hear the gossip,” he replied, “Dr Hardwicke talks medical ideas and nothing else.” He got up to add another log to the fire. “I barely understand his prescriptions sometimes.”

“Maybe we should go for a walk tonight and find out ourselves?” Mitchell’s adventurous spirit had been awoken.

“It could be nothing, John,” Anders pointed out. He picked up the leftovers of their supper and threw the scraps of the window, before returning the plates to the already growing pile on top of the rickety old table which had come with the house. “Come on,” the blond took Mitchell’s hands and led him up the stairs to their bedroom in the attic.

The sloped roofs made the place seem smaller than it was, even though it was actually above the height of the surrounding buildings so that nothing they said or did could be overheard. There was one large pallet bed which was strewn with several patched quilts and a few cushions which they’d brought with them from the country. Mitchell maintained that he’d seen a mouse in the room once but, as Anders pointed out, one had to step over rats in the streets, so a mouse in their room remained a pleasanter option.

They fell asleep that night with no more thoughts of what might be happening in the city.

***

The next evening, Mitchell returned with more news of the situation.

“Someone in the street today said that the sweating sickness has returned,” he said, “There’s not been an outbreak in over a hundred years, but apparently the court has already packed up and left.”

“Nonsense, the king’s still at Whitehall,” Anders looked up briefly from where he was attempting to mend a tear in one of Mitchell’s undershirts, even if his lack of skill with a needle had meant that the thread was tangled around his fingers.

“Are you sure that your doctor’s heard nothing?” Mitchell insisted, “He _is_ a doctor.”

“Hardly,” Anders scoffed and simultaneously stabbed the needle into his thumb, “Anyone can call themselves a doctor, John, you don’t need much training. _I_ could do some of the prodding and poking that Hardwicke does to his patients.”

“Maybe we should take some precautions if it is the sweating sickness,” Mitchell suggested, “I’ll close the windows so that the miasma can’t get in from the street.”

“We don’t know if it is the sweating sickness yet,” Anders replied, eventually losing patience with the shirt and throwing it aside. “If it satisfies you, I’ll ask if anyone’s heard anything tomorrow.”

And he did, quite unsuspectingly, anticipating the answer to be nothing to worry about. Instead, when Dr Hardwicke reported what he had heard, Anders found himself immediately wanting to run back to Mitchell and barricade the two of them into their house for as long as they could.

He went home with a heavy heart, fear and concern gnawing away at him as he walked.

As he passed the apothecary’s shop, he noticed that the old woman who usually begged there was nowhere to be seen. He had never before failed to see her in the entire time he’d walked that way. His heart became heavier at her absence and his footsteps seemed laboured as the dread weighed him down.

Mitchell met him at the door, all smiles, having gotten home earlier than him for once. As soon as the door was closed, he greeted the blond with a kiss and led him over to where he’d pulled up their chairs by the fire. There was a pot of water boiling over the flames and in that moment, Anders felt so protected and safe that he dreaded the brunet’s questions. He hoped that they would not come, but they did.

“Did you enquire about all this commotion, then?” Mitchell asked, stretching himself out in his chair and leaning his head back on the cushions; so content. “Any thrilling gossip to share?”

“Hardly thrilling, I’d say,” Anders replied. Unlike his other half, his whole posture was tensed; his elbows rested on the arms of his chair and his chin rested on his hands. “The news I received was not at all positive.” He looked across at Mitchell and the way that his eyes were wide and eager. “John, they say that it is the plague come to England from Europe again.”

The brunet froze in is chair, his relaxation abruptly ended and instead his eyes adopted a fearful look.

“The plague?” he asked, “Are you sure?”

“Dr Hardwicke said that people are trying to hide it but they’re sending in searchers to confirm cases. He hasn’t seen any cases himself but he’s seen the signs.”

“But it has not reached here, has it?” Mitchell fretted. “There have been no reports of it outside the centre of the city itself?”

“Old Rosie was gone from the apothecary’s shop this afternoon,” Anders admitted his concern for the beggar woman’s welfare.

“You don’t think…?” the brunet trailed away.

“I don’t know what to think,” Anders said, “You were right to suggest taking precautions yesterday. We must avoid any rotting air, which means no more walking by the river.”

“And we must pray,” Mitchell added, “Pray to be spared.”

Anders still found it mildly unusual how much Mitchell had taken to religion this time around, taking the teachings that bad luck was a punishment for a person’s sins directly to heart. He reasoned that even if he wasn’t entirely sure about God as the parson described him, he felt that there had to be someone up there who was responsible for everything that happened to them. The blond liked to remind him that they’d already decided that Fate was the one who liked playing with them, but Mitchell insisted on praying every night in the hope that someone might hear him.

“We could always try to get back to the country,” Anders suddenly suggested. “Get out while we still can.”

“But where would we go?”

A heavy silence fell over the two of them, the fire hissing and spitting between them.

“Let’s go to bed,” Anders finally stood and held out his hand for Mitchell to take, pulling the brunet to his feet and against his chest. “Let’s forget about this worry for a few hours.”

***

The next morning, Mitchell begged Anders not to go into the city, but Anders knew that if they wanted to eat and pay their rent, then there was no way that they could live on the brunet’s earnings alone.

On his way to the doctor’s rooms, Anders saw his first signs of the plague. Two of the houses he passed had red crosses painting across their front doors and the words ‘Lord have mercy upon us’ scrawled by the crosses. The blond stepped to the other side of the pavement and almost into the road. The smell of the open sewer in the cobbles assaulted him and he was suddenly reminded of his own advice to stay away from miasma.

He quickened his pace, keeping his head down, all the while feeling as though he was being suffocated by the air of the whole city itself.

A rat scuttled past him so suddenly that he nearly screamed, so tense had he become after seeing those two infected houses.

When he reached Dr Hardwicke’s offices, he nearly bumped into the doctor, who was exiting his rooms just at that moment. The man was wearing what Anders assumed was typical plague protection: a long heavy overcoat; long boots and gloves; and a beaked mask which reeked of dried herbs. Despite having seen the beak in the rooms before, Anders couldn’t help but feel that it looked far more grotesque now and he shivered unconsciously.

The doctor gave him a nod before going on his way, leaving the blond to let himself in.

The interior was colder than usual and the fire in the grate had yet to be lit. Anders shivered and set to work warming the rooms up before any clients arrived, though he would be sending them away if they wanted a diagnosis, he needed Dr Hardwicke for that.

The doctor returned some time in the early afternoon, removing his gloves and the horrific mask as he entered the room.

“Nasty business this,” he remarked as he sat down by the fire Anders had started, “The entire Worthing family are sick apart from the eldest, Annie, and I doubt many of them will make it through the week.” He rubbed his hands together. “It’ll be out into the counties before we know it. That’s if it’s not already there!”

He colour drained from Anders’ already pale face and he got up shakily.

“I should be going,” he said, knowing that it was actually much too early, “I have errands to run before I go home.”

To his credit, the doctor did not query him nor did he stop him going.

***

Anders let himself in when he finally made it to his front door, finding Mitchell bent double and poking at the fire.

“Does it seem cold in here to you?” the brunet asked, looking up at him.

The blond laughed.

“Of course not,” he said, “You’ve got a roaring fire going there.”

Mitchell frowned.

“It’s not warm enough,” he insisted, making Anders frown deeply.

“John, come here,” he said, crossing the room towards the other man and laying one hand across his cheek. “Damn it, John, you’re burning up!”

“Am I?” Mitchell seemed genuinely concerned, but as he lifted his own hand to his face, he suddenly began swaying on his feet. Anders reached out immediately and caught him firmly around the waist, steadying him.

“Didn’t you realise?” Anders asked, “What have you been doing for the past couple of hours?”

Mitchell hesitated for a few seconds, seemingly struggling to remember.

“I think I fell asleep as soon as I got in,” he replied finally, “Maybe I should lie down again.”

“Yes, maybe you should,” Anders agreed, carefully leading the brunet out of the room and up the stairs to their bedroom. At some points he was sure that Mitchell was going to trip and they were both going to fall, but he could hardly try and carry the other man when he was a good bit taller than him.

Once they’d made it upstairs, Anders set Mitchell down on the bed and helped him remove most of his clothes, leaving him in just a loose pair of trousers. As he let the brunet lie down and he went to tuck the covers up around him, he noticed a curious rash spreading across the other man’s right arm and almost onto his chest and shoulder. Dread washed through him like a wave.

Normal fevers did not bring rashes like that.

But he determined that to say anything about his fears, so instead he smiled reassuringly and told Mitchell that he was going to make him some warm soup while he had a nap.

When he eventually returned with the soup, he found the brunet snoring softly, his curls lying half across his forehead. Anders put the soup down before gently brushing the stray hair from the other man’s forehead, his fingers practically feeling the heat radiating from his skin.

The blond sat down on the other side of the pallet bed and pulled the remaining blankets around himself protectively, looking down at Mitchell’s sleeping form with tears in his eyes. The brunet always looked so peaceful when he slept, but at that moment, the muscles in his jaw were tensed and there were hard lines around his eyes as though he slept in great pain.

Letting the tears fall, the blond also lay down and drifted off to sleep.

***

When Anders finally awoke, he discovered that it was early morning and the soup was cooling off to one side of the room. Looking from the bowl to Mitchell’s still sleeping body, he was quickly and painfully reminded of what had happened the night before, and he choked back a quiet sob.

After a minute of trying and failing, he managed to get Mitchell awake and coherent enough to explain that he was going to make him some more soup and a drink, and then he had to go into work to get him some medicines. The brunet tried to protest the medicines, claiming that he’d be alright with more sleep, but Anders refused to believe him.

And so he fairly sprinted to Dr Hardwicke’s and then spent the majority of the morning subtly extracting information on symptoms, diagnosis and treatments out of his employer. By lunchtime, he was sure that he had all of the information that he needed, and when the doctor informed him that he was off to do his rounds and would not be back for several hours, Anders closed the shop up early and hurried home.

He paused at the apothecary’s shop to pick up everything that he’d decided he needed; the empty spot beneath the window where Old Rosie used to beg staring at him like a great open wound. It looked bare and gaping without her there, and the blond felt like he should have properly acknowledged the bad omen of her disappearance.

Entering the house, he immediately set about preparing the poultice he needed for the fever, carrying it upstairs to where he hoped that Mitchell was resting in relative calm.

He found the brunet still curled up under the blankets, twisting himself into them as he jerked a little in his sleep. Anders knelt down beside him, carefully lifting one side of the pillow to place the poultice underneath it, before smoothing back Mitchell’s hair and kissing his forehead gently.

“How are you feeling, John?” he asked softly, feeling the weight of caring for the other man while he was sick pressing down on him.

Mitchell’s eyes fluttered open with great effort.

“Not well,” he murmured, his words slurring together and making it difficult for Anders to understand him. But he did take some soup and managed to stay awake for a little while before he began complaining of tiredness again.

The blond let him sleep, taking this moment to go downstairs and crush the rest of the ingredients he had bought into a paste to apply to the rash on Mitchell’s arms and chest.

Once finished, he found himself once again traipsing back up the stairs and kneeling by the other man’s side. He carefully uncovered the brunet and gently began to apply the paste. It was thick, unyielding and smelt terrible, but the apothecary had promised that it would do the trick. Feeling rather doubtful, Anders had no other choice.

***

He would spend the next few days in the same routine, deciding to forgo his employment and stay by Mitchell’s bedside.

The paste, it seemed, barely calmed the rash, but still he applied it while watching the tiny red and black spots spread across the brunet’s entire torso. The poultice did not calm his fever, bringing his temperature to such heights that he was often feverous and unintelligible.

Anders refused to tell Mitchell what was exactly wrong with him, and the brunet was rarely conscious enough to ask him or understand if he had given him an answer.

When the swellings started, his suspicions were confirmed.

Mitchell most definitely had the pestilence, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

Each night, Anders did as the brunet had originally suggested and prayed fervently to anyone who was listening that the buboes would break and the poison within them would be released so that Mitchell could be saved.

He spent long hours talking about meaningless things or the memories they had made together, reminding the other man that he loved him, and that if he could just try his hardest to fight it.

For five days, their door stayed locked and no one entered or left. They were separated from the outside world, in just the way that the two of them would have liked to have always been.

But inside was a nightmare. Their bedroom was stifling, heated by Mitchell’s fever and the air was constantly damp and dread-filled.

On the fifth day, Anders considered opening a window to let some air in, but he was concerned that that might just make Mitchell’s situation worse. In the end, it was the brunet himself who made the decision.

“Open the window,” he managed to rasp, his voice hoarse from disuse and slurred with fever, his throat straining with the effort. “I want to hear the outside.”

At the sound of Mitchell’s voice, Anders was up in a moment, throwing the attic window wide before coming to kneel by the other man’s side again.

“Don’t exert yourself,” he said, trying to manoeuvre the brunet back into a lying position. “You need your strength.”

Mitchell managed a weak shake of his head.

“I have no need of it now,” he said softly, “I wanted to hear the world one more time.” He glanced before the window. “And I wanted to tell you that I…” He tried to lift one hand to Anders’ face but his own body failed him and the blond had to lift it for him and press it to his cheek. “I wanted to tell you that I love…”

He gave one last shuddering cough, and breathed out his last with his final word.

“…you.”

And with that, Anders pitched forward and collapsed, his body racked by violent sobs.

***

The searchers finally made it to the house that evening, demanding immediately that they take Mitchell’s body. Anders had protested having the brunet thrown into a mass grave with little ceremony but the searchers had been adamant that all plague victims had to be disposed of immediately.

They were also horrified to discover that no watchman had been posted by their door and the door had not been marked, so they sent for a man at once, and he came and informed Anders that the house must be quarantined for forty days, during which time no one would enter or leave, save for a doctor if necessary. He also said that food would be brought to the house and delivered personally by him, but there was to be no other contact.

Anders barely heard him. How he was to survive now had not even crossed his mind yet.

In the moments when the searchers where establishing the watchman’s post, he took the opportunity to cut a lock of Mitchell’s hair off with a kitchen knife and tuck it securely into the locket around his neck.

When they finally took Mitchell away, Anders was forced to retreat into a chair by the fire, telling the searchers that the brunet was his cousin and that he’d already done his grieving. His heart wanted to tell him to weep until they had finally closed the door but his head won over and told him that he could not for propriety’s sake.

In a few hours, his life had become meaningless and the aching hole in his chest opened up again without Mitchell by his side.

All he had to do now was wait and see when Fate decided that his time was also up.

***

But Fate had other ideas.

Anders spent over a year sleeping, eating and working, all the while waiting for the curtain to fall for the final time.

Without Mitchell’s income, he’d stopped being able to pay the rent to the landlord so he’d had to move right into the middle of the city, on a street which had houses packed into spaces which should have only held one not four. He took all of their belongings with him, even Mitchell’s chair, and every night he fancied that the blankets on the bed still smelt like the other man.

By the time that the first of September came around, Anders had come to realise that this was possibly the longest he’d lived after Mitchell had died. He began to consider ending everything himself and letting the cycle start again, but there would forever be that worry in his mind that if he took matters into his own hands, then he might possibly mix up his timeline so much that he would never meet Mitchell in his next life.

So he waited.

Right up until the early hours of the 2nd September 1666, at which point he was awoken by loud screaming from the street.

He untangled himself from the blankets and stumbled across the window. Peering out, he saw the family from a few houses down and various other neighbours packing their meagre belongings onto a rickety wooden cart. He frowned; it wasn’t as though they could simply all be packing up to move with the screaming and shouting.

So when he turned his head to look further up the street and was met by the sight of several large flames billowing so wildly out of the neighbouring window that it seemed they would curl around and strike the window he was standing in front of, he finally understood.

And then he smiled to himself and turned to slip back under his blankets.

No one would think to come and find him. He wasn’t even entirely sure that his neighbours knew that he lived there anyway.

He lifted the locket from around his neck and held it tightly in one hand over his heart, and then he closed his eyes and let images of a laughing Mitchell dance across his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> So this isn't the most historically accurate story but we'll go with it :)
> 
> Also, if anyone wants to chat or send me prompts on Tumblr you can - my url is agodavampiretwoheirsofdurin :)


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